


you as my exception

by undernightlight



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s06e10 The Two Deaths of Hercule Flambeau, Hercule needs a hug, M/M, Post-Episode: s06e10 The Two Deaths of Hercule Flambeau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29989350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: Father Brown is surprised to find, as he's leaving the church very late on night, Hercule Flambeau looming over his own, empty grave. He's even more surprised by the conversation that follows.
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	you as my exception

**Author's Note:**

> i've been in this fandom less than a week but god do i love it

He noticed the figure, the top half of the silhouette still murky but visible against the distant foliage. From the waist below, the outline of the figure disappeared within the darkness of the gravestone. Father Brown knew who the figure was for two distinct reasons. One, he knew that silhouette well and therefore it could be no one else, and two, no one else would visit that grave. He approached, and managed to stand right alongside the man without him acknowledging.

“I would not have expected to see you here, at your own empty grave,” the Father said. Flambeau, he noted, tensed ever slightly at his voice, but the Father did not take it personally; it appeared he just hadn’t heard him coming, and when it came to Flambeau, Father Brown thought that something of note.

“I was in the area,” came the reply. He was lying, Father Brown could tell, or at least was not telling the whole trust of things, but he decided not to mention it for fear that Flambeau would flee. And his voice, the Father also noted, sounded more distant than he was used to, but why he did not know.

“And so you thought, while near Kembleford, you would visit here, of all places.”

“What better place in Kembleford is there but my eternal resting.” Flambeau looked at him, finally, with something distinctly unreadable in his eyes, something that did not match the lightness in which he spoke those words. Father Brown couldn’t imagine Flambeau would return to Kembleford, regardless of if he was in the area, just to see what he knew was an empty grave. It had been a rather unique situation, he would admit that, but nothing in regards to him and Flambeau had ever been standard.

“How is your flock Father?” Flambeau asked, changing the topic, adjusting himself more directly to the Father than to the stone.

“The same as usual.”

“Devout and all?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And you? How have you been?”

This brought alarm to Father Brown. Flambeau did not ask these sorts of questions, and so Father Brown’s assessment that there was something more that he was not being told, seemed to be proved true, though that did not necessarily mean he was any closer to finding out why exactly Flambeau was here.

“I have been well,” he opted to say instead. “I’ve been kept busy as of late, church business mostly. And what of yourself Hercule? Been taking care of yourself I hope?”

Flambeau gave something of a laugh, a chuckled sounding half choked, and turned back to the grave. “I have been…” but he did not finish.

“Hercule?”

“I want to ask you something, Father, though I understand that my request may be impossible to grant.”

“You will not know that unless you ask.”

When Flambeau turned back to look at him, Father Brown was horrendously unprepared for what he saw. There was a sadness to Flambeau’s face he was not used to, his jaw clenched tight as if to stop the words from spilling out too soon. His eyes, they still shone, but not with their usual mischief, but only with the light of the moon reflecting off them, and they were unmistakably wet; he wasn’t crying, the Father felt the need to clarify even to himself, but there was misery threatening to spill if Flambeau was not careful. But despite all that, the thing that caught in Father Brown’s throat the most was the fear.

“When I die,” which Father Brown knew was never a good way to start a sentence, “I would like to be buried here, if you were to permit it.” Flambeau’s voice held steady as he spoke, so very like him, but Father Brown could still hear the weight those words carried.

“Here?” He couldn’t help but ask, still comprehending. “In Kembleford?”

“In this exact plot,” and Flambeau reached out to tap lightly on the gravestone.

“Not in France?” because Father Brown knew asking Flambeau for straight answers never worked.

“France holds nothing for me.”

“And your treasures?”

“Well, should I happen to be dying of illness, I’ll be sure to send a note to let you know where to find it all and who to return it to. In more likely, untimely, circumstances, I imagine they should turn to collecting dust.”

“You do not wish to be buried with any?”

Flambeau shook his head. “What good would they do a dead man?” He shuffled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m not asking for a Catholic funeral, or for redemption so please don’t get your hopes up, but just have my true eternal resting place aline with the fake. If it is impossible, then perhaps France after all, if I should be granted a funeral at all.”

Father Brown took the hat from his head and held it in his hands, turning it around with nervous fingers. “I had no problem with it this time,” as he nodded to the grass, “so why would it trouble me a second?”

“Because that would be real, and you would have a sinner in your grounds. Now please, Father, spare me more questions and give me an answer.”

“No,” he said, rather foolishly before thinking, because he had never seen that look on Flambeau’s face before and desperately never wanted to see it again; it was a horribly broken expression that reminded the Father simultaneously of a child, who’s innocence had been stolen, and that of a weathered man who had believe he could no longer be surprised, and then proven wrong. “No, I cannot spare the questions,” he clarified, though the damage had already been done. “I will bury you here, if that is your wish, but you cannot expect me to not worry at this inquiry.”

It was a truly poor excuse of a laugh that Flambeau gave. Father Brown could hear the strain, the anxiety, the Flambeau was trying to mask, trying to make light of, but it was not working. “You worry about me Father?” He asked, jokingly.

“Intensely and continuously.”

And despite Flambeau’s attempt to hide himself back in those walls, Father Brown stood before him and watched them crumble. It was not a sight the Father ever thought he’d be privy to, and though he had often wanted to see more honesty and warmth from the Frenchmen, he had never imagined or wanted it like this.

Flambeau didn’t look at him as he spoke. “You asked why not France and I said it doesn’t hold anything for me and it doesn’t. But here… There is something here that I find nowhere else, and I would like to remain surrounded by in my death.”

“Which is?”

“You, Father.” Flambeau looked at him then, eyes still sad and shining, and he continued before the Father could say anything. “When we met on that train, all those years ago, you outsmarted me. A rare feet but I had seen it done before, but never by the same person more than once. You were the exception. You became the exception for many things with me Father, which I will say I don’t always appreciate, and yet I am helpless to you as my exception.” Flambeau took a breath. “Will you bury me here?” He asked.

All Father Brown felt able to say was, “Yes.”

Flambeau smiled, the relief evident on his face. “May I ask one more favour of you?”

“Of course.”

From inside his jacket, he reached and pulled out a sealed envelope. He held it out, and Father Brown took it. “It’s my name. My real, full name. If at all possible, bury me under this. I request you not to open the envelope until then.”

Father Brown nodded and held the envelope tightly. “I will see that it’s done.”

“Thank you.”

“You still did not mention what brought on this, rather sudden wave of melancholy.”

“I need a reason?”

Father Brown sighed, “I did not mean it like that.”

And Flambeau smiled, the closest thing to happy Father Brown had seen all night. “I know Father, I know. Perhaps another time however,” which Father Brown knew meant never, “I must be going now.” Slowly, Flambeau stretched up and placed a gentle kiss to Father Brown’s cheek and then left without another word, leaving the Father surprised, alone and helpless to stop him leaving. He clutched at the envelope, but he had no desire to open it. Part of him hoped he would never have to.

He made a mental note of the conversation, to ask Flambeau about it when they next saw each other, though he doubted any answer would come easy. He would ask though, and hope that Flambeau trusted him enough to be honestly and vulnerable as he had just now. Despite the sadness that lingered within the Father, he rather thought warmth was a good look on Flambeau, and he hoped to be privy to that warmth once more.


End file.
